


After the Cybernauts

by celluloidbroomcloset



Category: The Avengers (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 06:43:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3559997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celluloidbroomcloset/pseuds/celluloidbroomcloset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place after the events in Return of the Cybernauts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Cybernauts

“It occurs to me that we haven’t had lunch,” said Steed, maneuvering the Bentley around another turn. “Paul could have at least fed us before he turned us into human cybernauts.”

He was trying to lighten the situation, as he had been trying to lighten it for the past several hours. He wished they could have left right away, but they were forced to explain to the Ministry garbagemen what had occurred, how and why. He signed a bevy of papers in regards to Paul Beresford’s death, the kidnapping of three well-known scientists and their apparently willing participation in the enslavement of both himself and Emma – during which time Steed had been unable to give Emma more than a passing glance. She seemed well enough, but when the time came to return to town, she insisted on leaving her car with the Ministry men and riding back with him. He did not complain. Terrible things seemed to happen when they were not together, which was as good a reason as any to remain side by side at all costs. But she had not spoken since they left Beresford’s.

A swing in the road put a stop to his one-sided conversation as he manipulated the Bentley’s frankly incommodious steering system. Emma bothered him about getting a properly modern vehicle for months now. Perhaps she was right. The thing was becoming more trouble than it was worth. But he felt such affection for it, with all its kinks and quirks. It had memories, this car did. A number of them included Emma Peel. 

“I was thinking,” he continued as the road evened out again. “We might try this little place a fellow from my club recommended. It’s only about a half-hour and quicker than going straight back to town. They apparently have the most remarkable duck a l’orange, which is so difficult to do properly in this country … ”

“Stop the car, Steed.”

Despite the surprising nature of the request, the tone of her voice indicated that she would brook no denial. Steed pulled the vehicle gently to the side of the road. It was a beautiful day for it. They had stopped at the edge of a bridge overlooking a trickle of a stream likely called ‘the Kenilburnsidetyde’ or something equally overblown. He turned to Emma. 

“Mrs. Peel, is everything … ” 

Her mouth crashed on his, knocking his hat off into the bargain. It was surprising, it was a little unnerving, but then … John Steed was never one to deny a lady anything. Not when her hands were insistently caressing his jaw and her lips were pressed against his own, at any rate.

Being in the car was a little awkward, but he seized her shoulders and managed to kiss her properly. He savored the fact that she was there, that she was with him, and that – for some reason he could only account for via his fabulous good luck – she loved him.

“Steed,” she breathed before she captured his mouth again. 

He wished that they were not on a bridge in the mid-afternoon sun. They needed to be at home, in her apartment, in her bed, where she could say his name like that while stripping away the final shreds of fabric that came between them. As it was, the gear-shift kept getting in the way.

He settled for sliding his hands down her bare shoulders, feeling the soft skin react with a tremor. She made a throaty noise that told him – again, with the same inexplicable good luck – that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. Then he buried his hands in her hair – her soft, lovely hair that attracted him from the first – and pulled her head back to kiss her throat. 

Really, the most awful place for a gear shift …

He felt a hand on his shoulder that pushed him away. Suddenly he was bereft of her and she was sliding out the door. Feeling a little dumbfounded, he watched as she walked slowly to the bridge and leaned on the stone railing, her gaze on the water beneath and her arms wrapped around her shoulders as though trying to warm herself. 

He finally summoned enough mental acuity and physical control to climb out of the car and follow her to the bridge. He thought he understood, but there were times – seldom enough, but times - when she was difficult to read. 

“Are you all right?” he asked, quietly. 

“Mm.” She gave a little nod. “I’m sorry.”

“About the kiss, or about ending it?”

“For surprising you.” She paused, eyes focused on the water. “Steed, I was never really interested in Paul.”

“I thought we had all that out,” he said. 

“If I hadn't worn that watch … ”

“Ridiculous to think about it.” 

She turned to him. “But it’s true. I was playing a game, with both of you. I played it right into his hands.” 

She took a breath. “I've never been so frightened, Steed. The kind of man that he was ... he fooled me. That, I think, is the most upsetting. I take great pride in having at least a modicum of sense when it comes to people. I was flattered by his attentions. It blinded me."

"We both were blinded." 

"You weren't."

Steed sighed. He had been blinded by something far more powerful than charm or flattery. 

"I have never been so out of control that I could hurt you." Her eyes met his. "Did I hurt you?"

"Only a little."

He took her hand and felt it tremble briefly in his own.

She broke their gaze, turning back to the water. “Beresford … could have done anything to me. Would have done.” 

Steed’s jaw tightened. He could have killed Beresford that day and felt quite satisfied. 

“I wouldn't let him,” he said, and wished it were true. But he would have been helpless too. 

She smiled at him and squeezed his hand. He would be damned if he could do nothing now.

He drew her into his arms. She came willingly, wrapping her arms about his waist beneath his coat. They stood, silent and unmoving, holding each other on the bridge. 

Steed closed his eyes. He had mistrusted her and that mistrust turned to a violent jealousy that he was not proud of. Beresford sought to drive a wedge between them, then torture them with it, and nearly succeeded. He might have spent years manipulating them. 

Steed considered the rage that drove him at times. His terror of losing her often hardened into a calculated and entirely single-minded pursuit of whatever villain stood between them. That terror could be used against him by an intelligent villain. Beresford would have forced him to watch, forced him to listen, to everything. Whatever tortures he could devise for them both. 

But Beresford was dead. He could only lay a hand on Emma through manipulation, deceit, violence. Steed held Emma Peel in his arms because she wanted to be there.

He turned his head and kissed her cheek. When a murmur of encouragement passed her lips, he kissed her jaw, the soft hollow beneath her ear, the corner of her mouth. He tightened his arms around her and felt her respond, holding him with a touching, disarming urgency. He kissed her mouth, and the warm, pliable lips opened to his touch. How could he have doubted her, when every look and kiss spoke the same words? 

After a delightful interlude that might have distracted the swans in the water below, she drew away, smiling. Breathless. She ran her index finger across his mouth, her hand caressing his face. He pressed a kiss into her palm. 

“Duck a l’orange?” she asked. 

“Supposed to be delicious. Then a drive?” 

“A country inn.”

“Drinks in the moonlight.”

“With the midges.” Her soft eyes shone. “A room with a fire.”

“A friendly and understanding proprietor.”

“Who asks very few questions.” She paused. “A large, soft bed.”

“You in my arms.” 

“You in mine.” She brushed her lips against his in a chaste and alarmingly arousing kiss. “We’re in danger of becoming domestic, Steed."

“Impossible, Mrs. Peel. Who knows when the next villainous mastermind will broach his nefarious plans for world domination and we shall be called upon to rid the country of yet another dangerous threat?”

“Not for another day, I hope. The world can wait.”

They walked slowly back to the car. Steed opened the door for her and handed her in, taking a moment to admire her – all of her. A strong, beautiful, elegant, intelligent woman, belonging to no one but herself, impossible to possess. Men like Beresford could not see that, and never would. 

Steed slid into the seat beside her. Emma tossed her hair back, stretching her limbs like a cat. He smiled. He could not protect her, and she would never let him. He could not keep her. He would just have to be satisfied with loving her, and being loved by her. Steed started the engine. He supposed that he could live with that. A


End file.
